Go back to where you came from, Brit, the last one had said. Or else there will be trouble.
Edward cringed at the memory. His gaze swept the rolling hills and scattered trees where they touched the feet of the Big Horn Mountains. If he squinted, he could almost imagine himself back home in England. Though that wasn’t where he wished to be—not since leaving five years ago. The longstanding stigma of being a castoff, a throwaway, as the third son of an earl, stole over him and gripped his throat in a choke hold.
Coughing, he climbed onto his horse, Napoleon, and steered the animal toward the ranch house. Even at a distance the white, two-story home with its three-sided porch stood out like a pearl against a velvet-green backdrop. A swell of pride loosened the bitter taste of old memories. He’d come here, armed with only a dream and his inheritance. And now he ran the largest horse ranch in the Sheridan area.
But all his hard work would be for naught if he couldn’t figure out who was sabotaging him. He urged Napoleon faster, his stomach grumbling with hunger. McCall had come to the house at the start of breakfast with the news of the damaged fence and runaway horses. Edward had left without eating a bite.
Outside the small stable near the house, he dismounted and led his horse inside. “Time for your version of tea and crumpets, isn’t it?” he murmured affectionately to the black horse. The gelding whinnied and tossed its head, eliciting a chuckle from Edward. The horse wasn’t as tall as its predecessors, hence Edward’s choice of name. What the animal lacked in overall stature, though, Napoleon made up for in strength and agility.
Once he’d given the horse its grain and a rub on the nose, Edward headed into the ranch house through the front door.
“I’ve returned, Mrs. Harvey,” he called to his housekeeper and cook as he removed his hat and hung it on the hall tree. A pile of mail from yesterday’s post still sat undisturbed on the table. He’d been so busy overseeing the breaking-in of a horse yesterday that when he’d finally returned to the house, he hadn’t bothered to do much more than grab a late supper and head to bed.
He carried the mail to the dining room. On the top of the stack, he found a letter from his mother, no doubt asking when he planned to visit. Edward wished he could convince her to come here instead. He wanted to show that, although he wasn’t an earl and the estate heir as his oldest brother had been these last five years, that he’d worked hard at creating a good, successful life here.
Though a bit of a lonely one, his conscience prodded.
Edward ignored the thought. He’d discovered early on that the daughters of Sheridan’s wealthy ranchers weren’t so different from their English counterparts. In both countries, he was the sum of his bank account and supposed good looks, with little thought to his character or integrity—and no consideration at all to their own. He’d never loved the idea of money or appearances being the basis of a marriage. Living alone, in his opinion, was far more tolerable than entering into a marriage that wasn’t founded on mutual affection and respect. It was something his younger sister had helped instill in him.
“Just remember to be true to who you are, Eddie,” Liza had often reminded. “You are of worth, most especially to me and to God.”
Though one year his junior, his sister had exemplified wisdom and vision beyond her years. Perhaps that was the reason she’d left this world too soon, at the tender age of fourteen. Edward missed her still and hoped she knew that he’d tried to live true to himself in the fifteen years since her death.
Taking a seat at the polished mahogany table, he started sifting through the rest of the mail. There was a newspaper and some sort of penny dreadful—or dime novel as he’d heard them called here in America—for Mrs. Harvey.
As though she knew what “treasure” awaited her, Mrs. Harvey bustled into the dining room, a tray in hand. “Here you are, sir. Nice and warm once more.”
“Thank you for accommodating my erratic schedule of late, Mrs. Harvey.” Edward scooted aside the mail to make room for his breakfast. The poached egg, crumpets and hot tea made his mouth water. “Looks splendid as usual.”
The older woman’s round cheeks pinked with pleasure. “Best eat up before it goes cold—again.”
After laying his napkin across his knees, he extended the dime novel toward her. “I do believe this is yours, madam.”
Her face went from pink to red as she snatched the thin book from him. “Thank you, sir.”
“What is this one about?” he asked as he lifted his fork.
Mrs. Harvey’s brown eyes lit with excitement. “It’s about a detective in disguise—a real Pinkerton agent, no less. I’m hoping it’s as good as one I read by E. Vanderfair about five years ago.”
“Ah. Sounds intriguing.”
“I’ll see that you’re hooked on them before too long, sir.” She wagged a finger at him. “Just you wait and see.”
Edward shook his head with amusement as his housekeeper left him to his meal. The fifty-year-old woman had been the family’s cook for years at their London residence. Edward had always liked her and her food, so when he’d concocted the idea of coming to America, he’d asked if she might be interested in joining him as a housekeeper and cook. Mrs. Harvey, a widow with no children of her own, had readily agreed. She could be doting at times or downright cheeky, but they got on as well here as they always had. She was still the creator of the finest food he’d ever sampled, and she hadn’t lost her propensity for sensationalized stories, either.
As for himself, he didn’t see the appeal of those overblown bits of nonsense. His reading tastes had changed since leaving England, consisting of mostly equestrian books and the newspaper. Facts, reality, knowledge, those were his forte—not melodrama.
After offering a blessing over his food, as well as his ranch and staff, Edward began to eat. He decided to read his mother’s letter later, since hers had the potential to spoil his appetite. The address and English postmark on the other letter he found in the stack of mail set his heart beating double time as he opened the envelope. This must be an answer to his inquiry, at last.
He read the words through carefully. By the time he reached the end, he was grinning. His father’s contact in the British Cavalry had come through after all. They were, indeed, interested in securing a large quantity of horses from his region.
A rush of satisfaction rose within him as Edward dug heartily into his breakfast once more. All of his hard work would be worth it if he could secure a contract with the British Cavalry. Then his mother and brothers would surely have to acknowledge that, in spite of not being the heir or the spare to his family’s wealth and title, he’d done quite well. Soon the name and ranch of Edward Kent would mean something, far beyond his small corner of the world.
He couldn’t wait to tell McCall the good news. Thoughts of his foreman brought the memory of the trampled fence and escaped horses to mind and doused his excitement like water against hot coals. He couldn’t afford any more mishaps, not if he wanted to supply the Cavalry with needed horses.
No longer hungry, he set aside his fork. He needed to stop whoever wanted him gone. But that meant finding out who was behind the disruptions. Pushing his dishes out of the way, Edward rested his elbows against the tabletop. Who in the area might hold a vendetta against him? He could think of no one. His staff treated him with the same respect he showed them, and the other ranchers he associated with at the Sheridan Inn
